Savage Mind
by Myurra-K
Summary: The Game has only one winner, and Peeta knows it wont be him. He soon learns that resigning himself to his fate isn't the same as escaping torment, and that knowing the truth doesn't hide him from that infectious spark of hope. Even a lifetime of suppression can't bury all the anger and violence. When faced with survival maybe he wasn't so different from 'Them' after all. C/P.
1. I: Run Little Spider

**Future Warnings:** _Slash, Violence, Coarse Language, Character Death, Mentions of Abuse, Sexual Situations, Possible Dub-Con. _

* * *

**Savage Mind**

_.:I:._

_Run Little Spider_

_._

With the false fire flickering at the base of his neck, a trickle of excited sweat rolling down the tingling skin, and black dots in his vision from all the colours and lights marking the blur of the screaming, cheering masses, Peeta wrapped his fingers gently around those of the young woman next to him. She tore her hand away, her eyes losing their overwhelmed roundness and sharpening into a laser-like glare when she faced him.

"C'mon, they'll love it," he reassured, amazed he'd even managed to speak over the swell of rejection that had knotted up his throat. He knew she wanted nothing more than to slap him, or perhaps even to spit in his face, but with a pause of hesitation she surrendered her clammy palm to his, obviously remembering Haymich's words on the train. _'He knows what he's doing.'_

Dragging their joined hands upward, Peeta felt the forced grin slowly become one of relief. Beside him, Katniss caught a rose and lifted her other hand, greeting the audience proudly, a beaming smile lighting her features – _confidence_. Peeta gave her that.

Confidence won sponsors.

He managed to keep his eyes from straying to her from the corner, but it was impossible to keep his gaze off the banners glowing to life with her face, framed with synthetic flame. He didn't even glance twice at any of the other banners as they strode past in their carriages.

He didn't notice his eyes had faded out and his cheeks were aching with the unmoved smile until they pulled to a stop and the flames doused by themselves, starved without the rushing oxygen to feed them. He and Katniss both lowered their arms to glance back in alarm. Both were aware of but avoiding the fact the other tributes were looking back at them from their own places astride their carriages.

Katniss was more subtle about ripping her hand away this time, at least. She released the grip her fingers had naturally taken through his, tugging away with a specific shake of her wrist, masking the movement by cupping the crimson petals of the rose prized in her hands.

Peeta felt cold under the weight of the eyes of the Capitol, under the scrutiny of the tributes.

Under the power of President Snow.

He was a good actor, though, and not a single falter in his expression could be seen to those who bothered to look at him next to the beauty of his District Partner. Not even when the adrenaline fizzled out in his veins and the thrill of celebrity tasted bitter rather than sweet.

"May the odds be_ ever_ in your favour."

_Never in mine_, Peeta thought, uncaring if his enthusiasm had lost its gleam as they waved their way back out of the spotlight. The chariots turned, soaring back the way they came, giving the audience their fill of their sacrifices.

It was almost as though they couldn't comprehend the severity of their tradition. Of course they couldn't – they weren't at any risk. But for the slaves of the twelve districts, life was a constant fear. As a child, you fear growing older, you suffer through watching friends and family and perfect strangers sent to their death each year. You fear being one of them. Then, for seven years, you have that risk. If you're lucky enough to survive the reaping, fourteen other children you grew up with died so you could do so. But even then you're not safe from fear, even once you've surpassed the reaping, because then you begin fear love. You fear companionship.

You fear your children being taken to their bloody death, exploited as entertainment for an absent master.

But then, Peeta will never have to fear love, will he?

Because he only has a few more weeks to live, after all. And if it's not him who dies, it's the twenty-three children surrounding him. He doesn't think he could love after something like that.

Katniss has noticed his grim expression as she moves off the carriage, Cinna's gentle hands easing her down. She stares at him for a long time, stony blue eyes scanning his face as though searching for the reason for his sudden change.

Ever since the train, all she'd seen was him soaking up the attention, after all.

Apparently the answer she'd been curiously seeking wasn't worth the question, because she turned to her stylist's glee with a kind, breathless smile of her own.

Portia lingered to the side as Peeta helped himself down from the carriage, Haymich and Effie seemingly materializing beside them. A bubble of excitement seemed to bloom around their little group, because the volume was steadily increasing with each congratulation while the bustle around them seemed almost hushed in comparison.

Then Haymich, who had taken to talking more to the female of twelve than the male, stumbled over his words during a brief, sarcastic exchange. Peeta followed both his mentor's and Katniss' line of distraction straight to the towering tribute from two.

The towering tribute from two who had been apparently staring at the back of his head, who was now staring right into his eyes.

Like an ill-fitted puzzle, their gazes locked, and as often happens when pieces are forced together, Peeta found himself trapped too tightly to pull away.

_Christ, does this guy even blink?_

"Uh, lets...lets take this upstairs," Hamich suggested, giving the unfamiliar boy a long, wary stare, the kind of stare a victor shouldn't give a tribute.

Victors are supposed to be strong, predators hidden under the guise of prey. They're supposed to be the spiders, the lethal ones that cleverly outwitted the flies. Haymich wasn't supposed to cringe from a rival mentor's tribute, a boy plenty years his junior, simply because of the differing status of their districts. Right now, Peeta wasn't sure if his mentor was a spider, or just a really lucky fly.

He snapped away from his thoughts when he felt Effie's delicate bleached hands on his shoulders, directing him away, already happily buzzing about the feast that will have been prepared by the Avoxes to greet them on their floor. He glanced at Katniss, who was now frowning at him, willingly being herded by Cinna to follow Portia and Hamich's lead toward the elevator. She turned away, politely answering her stylist.

Peeta felt a hot flash of jealousy.

How was it possible for this Capitol man to win her graces so effortlessly, when Peeta couldn't even earn himself a courteous greeting?

Peeta managed to glance around the large fold of fabric that exaggerated Effie's shoulders, trying to see if the boy of Two was still staring after them. He was.

Even with his mentors and escorts and stylists trying to garner his attentions with impatiently clicking fingers, his tiny district partner already conversing quietly with the two flashier dressed tributes from District One right beside him, the menacing teen paid them no mind. He had yet to look away at all, as far as Peeta could tell.

A small mockery of a smirk twisted the corner of his mouth when he saw Peeta glance back once more – probably a look of arrogance, but he was too far away to tell. If Peeta didn't look away until the elevator doors sliced away the view, no body cared to notice.

For the entire ride upwards in the building, Peeta stared numbly at the orange glow of the button Effie had pressed to take them to their floor. It wasn't until the doors opened once more and he half expected the other tribute to be standing right before them, that pinch of mirth on his lips, that Peeta's gut sank with some emotion.

He hadn't heard a single word of the idle chatter between their escort and the others, barely even registering the voices explaining why they had the penthouse floor. As Katniss pushed past him, leading him almost as she allowed the adults to guide them into their floor, Peeta couldn't help but muse that they were at the top of the building, the farthest floor away from the training rooms. And wasn't the symbolism just so cruelly ironic? Suddenly, the penthouse seemed like less of a privilege.

No victors ever come from District Twelve, after all.

_'May the odds be ever in your favour'? Bullshit_. The odds were in whoever's favour they say it is. That's why they have Gamemakers, and Careers, and sponsors. That's why they have twelve year olds, and eighteen year olds, and already know who's going to win when they throw a knife in the mix.

_It's sick._

"You don't seem impressed," Haymich says suddenly, observantly, and Peeta realises that his face had twisted into a frown over the past minute they'd been absently exploring the common rooms. The really cold, shiny, glass and marble rooms. Rooms so sterile and white that, while awe-inspiring, were almost humorously ugly to someone like him. Lifeless..._alien._

"Try 'out of place'," Peeta murmurs, inspecting an unusual glass ornament that twisted into what looked like a frozen replica of flames. He tried to find the value in such an artefact, searching himself for an ounce of appreciation for its appearance, wanting to understand the appeal.

"Isn't it lovely?" Effie asked suddenly, her dusty skin too close to his face. The makeup made her look old, Peeter observed, seeing it gathered visibly in the smile lines around her eyes. "It's exquisitely rare to see works by him, and none of his sculptures are, dare say, cheap."

Peeta nearly winced at her giggle. From the corner of his eye, he saw Katniss lean against a stone pillar, arms folded, watching him with an unreadable look on her face.

Effie continued. "But I found out what Cinna was doing with your entrance ceremony, and I just had to get it put in here. It's perfect for the boy and girl on fire. See how the light catches it so? Isn't it wonderful?"

"How much would it be worth?"

"Well-"

Haymich cut her off. "Probably more than your parents' bakery and every piece of bread they've ever sold combined."

Peeta had the sudden urge to break it.

Knuckles trembling as he clenched his fists, he forced himself to walk away to fully ignore the compulsion to destroy the glass sculpture. Passing Katniss, he saw a look in her eyes that told him she probably would break it even if he didn't.

"Now, go get changed into something more comfortable," Portia's soothing voice suddenly told him, her gentle hands coming to the back of his shoulders. "Get ready for dinner."

He allowed her to lead him to his rooms, the words 'get changed' not quite sinking in until he had his head buried in his new wardrobe, a multitude of new Capitol fashions surrounding him. They'd thrown out the clothes he'd worn to the reaping.

Caressing the satiny, rich fabrics between his fingers, his skin exfoliated so brutally that they were no longer calloused and rough and dull to texture, he thought of threadbare trousers and ripped seams. He thought of kneeling in algae, the putrid smell of death and drought, hand washing his apron every evening in the icy creek. He thought of the ventilation of his boots; the soles blown out and holes in his socks.

He'd never wanted to burn something more in his life - not even the loaves of bread he'd thrown out into the rain for an emaciated young Katniss.

* * *

A/N: Yes, this is Cato/Peeta. Like always, small projects turn out larger than I plan them to be. What was intended as a oneshot has become the prologue for a chaptered story.  
I decided to work with a different angle for Peeta, and I pray it works out well enough. I hope all you C/P fans enjoy!


	2. II: Forged In Fire

**Savage Mind**

_.:II:._

_Forged In Fire_

.

When Peeta woke the next morning, it was to Effie's rather effective use of her shrill voice as an alarm. The room was still dark enough to be mistaken for midnight. Or it had been, until the woman swung open his door and stood in the frame of the light that pierced his eyes.

"Peeta! Did you hear me?" she demands, drawing out no more than a pitiful groan in reply as the teen slung an arm over his tortured eyes.

Normally Peeta woke with the sunrise. There was a hole in the roof in the corner of his room above the bakery, and he slept almost completely under it on a cardboard-thin mattrass and wrapped in a tanned deer skin. The light -or rain, depending on the mood of the weather- broke into the room, and his father and brothers were already up and about by that time. Between the noise and the daybreak, it was near impossible to sleep any longer, and what with the threat of a beating if his mother found him slacking off, he was always quick to slide into his day clothes.

But here, where the walls were soundproof for privacy, the window sealed shut, and the furnishings that of true Capitol luxury, Peeta was loathe to admit he'd had the best sleep of his entire life.

"My goodness, you and Katniss are as bad as each other!" Effie chastised, stalking across the room and yanking down the plush coverlets. Peeta immediately shivered at the sudden rush of cool air over his pleasantly warm body. Effie made a quiet indignant noise, and Peeta remembered somewhere in the back of his mind that he'd slept naked, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he tore the blankets back over his torso. The woman let him.

"It's freezing!" he hissed, absently aware that the temperature was nothing compared to many nights he'd slept through back in District Twelve. "Ugh, what time is it?"

"It's almost nine. Go wash up, young man. I want you dressed and having breakfast."

Peeta just groaned again, his eyes finally adjusting to the harsh light still crawling into the room from the wide open door. A soft tutting sound came from the woman beside him, who headed straight for the closet he'd investigated the night before. She pulled out a black and red bundle, nudging the door closed again with a swing of her hip, her delicate white hand settled atop the clothes. She strutted back across the room, and for some reason, it made a small smile tilt Peeta's lips.

Somehow, he had an idea that this was what a mother was supposed to be like.

Yet again, he found his reverence for anything resembling the Capitol only ended in grievous thoughts.

Intentionally ignoring the sour expression on Peeta's face, she dropped the bundle of meticulously folded clothes on his lap, giving him a stern eye. "Hop to it; I want to see bright eyes and glittering charm asap. Big, big day today. You start your training, how exciting!"

As per usual, the prospect of the game had her trailing off into excitement, completely bypassing the lecturing tone and leaving her bustling out of the room with an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes. Peeta waited until the woman disappeared completely through the door, a small stripe of white light thrown across the marble floor, darkness melting in from the corners once more.

He sat completely still for a whole minute before moving, running the material of his training gear between his thumb and forefinger, idly tracing the number twelve on the sleeve.

.

* * *

Peeta glanced over at Katniss shortly after the elevator doors closed on them. He'd noticed that whenever it was just the two of them, it was completely, awkwardly silent. The smooth voice and winning smile he'd come to adore seeing on his District Partner's face completely disappeared when they were away from Haymich and Cinna.

It also didn't escape his notice that Katniss probably hadn't slept at all last night. The hollows of her eyes were bruised from stress and exhaustion, and her skin was a tone or so paler than Peeta had thought it was. Her high cheeks were slightly sunken, as though she hadn't eaten the night before.

Yet he remembers seeing her eat as though she'd been famished all the years.

_Poor Katniss,_ he thought, mind going to Prim and the reaping. Watching this girl volunteer for her sister had been the most heartwrenching thing he'd ever seen with his own eyes. Katniss obviously missed her beloved sister, and he wondered if that had been the cause of her unrest.

Opening his mouth to ask, Katniss - who he had no idea had even known he was in the elevator in the first place – whipped her head around and cut him off, her voice like a blade of ice.

"Don't," she snapped, glare fierce.

The anger on her drawn, tired face was ugly.

"Fine," he whispered, deciding not to look at her and to instead stare at the metal doors in front of them, anticipating what would be on the other side, "I wont."

He knew she'd stared at him for a moment too long after that, but as the contraption chimed, staggering to a halt at the training floor, his attention was for the parting to the small box only. He hated small, cold spaces, where he felt trapped and the company was colder than the air itself. He'd rather be home alone with his mother and a tray of burned breads.

.

* * *

_The Careers..._

After watching them for all of five minutes, Peeta found himself wishing the Capitol had simply thrown them in the arena immediately. Why even bother giving the other districts the hope of learning a few survival skills, and perhaps becoming adept at handling a simple weapon, when there were kids that were able to do the kinds of things those four could do?

What was the point?

Why didn't they just round up two kids from each district from three onwards and execute them, then take tributes from One and Two and have them fight it out to the death? What was the point of hope when it's countered by the reality that people like him just didn't survive the Hunger Games.

People don't get sponsors for camouflage, or for throwing sacks of flour either.

Katniss just didn't get it, did she?

But all it took to remind him of that naïve little spark of hope was a glance at the Gamemakers observing them from above, chatting regally over glasses of colourful liquid and laughing obnoxiously at their tribute pawns. If he could give even one of them a reason to believe he might have a chance, or even that it'd be interesting if he were to survive a few days longer than the bloodbath, then he just might have a chance. After all, they were the ones who decided who won.

_They just choose the Careers because they're the real entertainment._

That spark burnt out each time he looked at Katniss.

His district would never forgive him if he came back to them and she didn't. Even his own mother wanted her to survive, knowing it would mean her own son would have to die.

But neither of them were Careers. Neither of them could tear up a training dummy with a spear, sword, or throwing knives.

"Where's my knife?"

It was Two. The tribute who was entirely too tall and broad for a sixteen year old was shoving a younger boy from four, drawing murmurs from all corners of the training room. All attention was on them. Peeta looked up from the rack of spears nearby he'd been investigating curiously, now watching the commotion only a few feet away from where he was standing.

In a typical ploy from a Career, throwing his weight and his voice around to intimidate, his threats drew action from the trainers and the Peacekeepers.

As the older boy, Cato, shoved the younger boy hard, evoking a shout in reply, the men were on them, seperating them with their arms, avoiding force. From how close Peeta was, even _he_ felt a little threatened by the Career, who was more imposing than most of the Peacekeepers themselves were. Peeta took an unnecessary step back, pressed against the rack of spears as he tried to avoid the growing crowd of people.

"I didn't take your damn knife!"

"You just wait, you'll be the first one I get!"

Finally, the younger boy was dragged away, shaking with the adrenaline that had driven him to retaliate, flush-faced and breathing heavily. He looked like he'd just signed away his life on the dotted line.

The trainer that had been working with Cato stumbled back out of the way as the Career stormed back toward the man, looking as though he wanted to make someone, probably the trainer himself, hurt. The proximity of the Capitol man to Peeta had the teen stumbling back again as though trying to avoid getting burnt, only this time there was nowhere to go. His shoulder blades knocked the spears behind him with a hard jerk. Several fell off the rack and onto the floor, clattering loudly and drawing Cato's attention.

Peeta was staring at the Career, frozen with the fear he felt braiding down his spine in chilly tendrils. The hairs on his arm rose at the look Cato was giving him, those grey eyes narrowing as though he'd caught the scent of blood. When the other teen's lips curled in a dangerous mix of a snarl and a smirk, Peeta's gut stirred nervously.

He couldn't look away. Cato _still_ wasn't blinking.

"What the hell are you looking at, _Twelve_?" Cato sneered, fists clenching and striding forward, clearly seeking out another fight.

"N-nothing-"

"I'm not _nothing_," the larger boy growled, ignoring the imploring hand of warning from the trainer, kicking one of the loose spears across the ground. Peeta restrained the urge to see how far the other teen had sent it across the floor. "I'm Cato, District Two, and I'm gonna be the Victor, so don't you forget it, _Boy on Fire_."

"I'll keep it in mind," he murmured, feeling his palms grow clammy. The other boy was_ too close._

They were suddenly closer when Cato's large hand fisted in his training shirt, yanking him away from where he'd been cowering against the racks. The tips of his shoes scraped the fallen spears, the grip on his shirt lifting him onto the balls of his feet.

This boy, who was supposedly the same age as himself, was _huge. _

He felt his own breath stagger through his teeth when Cato leered down at him. "Don't tell me you think you can win," the boy said, as though it were some kind of secretly hilarious joke that he no longer laughed at but was still amusing.

"Why n-ot?" Peeta braved, watching the Peacekeepers reassembling behind the other tribute. A white gloved hand landed on Cato's shoulder, fingers gripping just tight enough to be a warning – a chance.

"Let go, son. Plenty of time for this in the arena."

"Piss off," Cato snarled, his glare suddenly growing hard, eyes no longer locked on Peeta but on the wall far behind. It struck him as odd that the Career hadn't actually been angry until just now.

_There's something wrong with him_, Peeta thought, watching the Peacekeeper's grip harden.

"_Now,_ Two. This is your last warning."

Suddenly, Cato threw him back to release him. The fall wasn't from the shove but rather the spear he stepped back on, the length of smooth metal rolling under his shoe. Losing his footing, all too quickly and unexpectedly, Peeta was too stunned to catch himself in time. His thoughts danced woozily as his vision seemed to switch from Cato to the far away ceiling in a blink, spine stricking the cold hard ground.

The spear rolled away innocently, the sound masked by the laughter of the other three Careers and a couple of the other scattered tributes.

The look on the Peacekeeper's face was one of fury, waving others over, probably with all intentions of restrain the aggressive tribute, to take him away and punish him for breaking the rules.

_The Capitol's rules._

Peeta saw them advancing, and before he'd even realised he'd done it, he was quickly returning to his feet, dusting himself off out of habit. He forced a short laugh, being sure he had the Peacekeeper's attention. "Hey, look, it's no problem. No harm, no foul."

The man stiffened, giving the Career a skeptical look. Peeta reached out to clap the larger teen on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"Just a disagreement. We're cool, right Cato?"

Cato was staring at him, at his easy albeit forced smile, arms folded and a small line of puzzlement creasiong his brow. After a pause that was too long for honesty, Cato said slowly, a bit of hesitation colouring his words. "Yeah...yeah we're cool," he said, then, after a bit of quiet, and a little more pointedly, "Twelve."

The Peacekeeper gave them both a hard, disbelieving look, but settled with a terse nod. "Be sure that it stays that way. I wont warn you a third time, Two."

Peeta released a short, shakey breath as the man turned away, glancing at Cato from the corner of his eye. He quickly pulled his hand back away from the other teen's shoulder when he realized he had yet to remove it, confused that the other boy had allowed the touch without shrugging him off or striking him when the Peacekeeper's back was turned. He lowered his gaze to the spears on the floor, feeling the hot sensation of an entire room's eyes on him.

For a moment, he thought Cato was going to say something to him, but the other tribute just stared at his downcast face, then turned and walked away without another word, returning to his District Partner and the District One tributes.

Katniss gave him a piercing cold look from across the room, then turned away and returned to her snares.

.

* * *

Peeta was the last one left at the table. He wasn't eating still, but rather picking at his teeth with a small, clean bone, eyes glazed and quite obviously far away in thought. Had been for a while, it seemed. His distraction didn't stop Haymich from loudly throwing himself into the seat across from the male tribute, the feet of the chair screeching horridly against the floor.

Peeta jumped, dropping the bone on his plate and inhaling sharply at the abrupt appearance of his mentor.

Haymich smirked.

"Our little birdy told me you made a friend today," the man started off, sounding decidedly sobered enough to be serious. Peeta, knowing his mentor was referring to Katniss, stirred to attention. An Avox that had been patiently waiting in the corner of the room hurried to his side, taking the plate now that she knew the tribute was finished with everything on it. Peeta waited until the Avox disappeared around the corner to speak.

"What did she say?"

"Just that you were getting familiar with that guy from Two. After he knocked you on your ass, of course."

"I tripped," Peeta murmured stubbornly, elliciting a dry laugh from the man across from him. Mirroring Haymich's slouch, Peeta leaned back in his chair, fingers linked over his stomach, meeting his mentor's gaze evenly. "And I didn't make a friend, for your information."

"The way I heard it, you stepped in and gave some excuse so he wouldn't get in any trouble."

"And who'd you hear that from?" he asked, wondering aloud. Katniss hadn't been close enough to hear what had been said between them. She'd only seen the dispute, then Cato leaving him alone.

"Brutus," Haymich answered with a shrug. After a moment's silence, the man rolled his eyes lightly. "Two's mentor."

"Ah," Peeta chewed his lip, watching his own hands as he parted them, fisting them against his lap. When he didn't deny any further, Haymich continued.

"Why'd you do it?" the older asked sincerely. "He broke the rules and attacked you. He invaded your space outside of contact training. He should have been punished."

"I think the Capitol have punished us enough, don't you?" Peeta hissed suddenly, his glare lifting to his mentor's face. Those blue eyes were widened back at him in surprise at the sudden flare of temper he found there.

Peeta was slightly dull and occasionally bitter toward Haymich, seeing as he and everyone else seemed to favour Katniss and her chances of winning, but he'd never been angry, merely resigned. This took them both by surprise.

A small mirthless quirk pulled at the corner of Haymich's thin mouth, and the man leaned forward to reach for a bottle on the table. "Ah, I see now," he hummed, fingers wrapping around the neck of the crystal bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside. "This is good. Well done, Peeta. You might have just given us a little something more to work with."

"Wait, what?" he questioned, his heart speeding up with the sudden jolt of hope. Haymich's knowing gaze didn't seem to miss the way his pulse began fluttering under the skin of his throat. "How?"

"I can see it in your eyes. You hate the Capitol more than anything. You'd rather see it burn."

Peeta couldn't stop the frown that tipped his brow. "Wouldn't anyone?"

"No, not with the intensity I just saw then. That hatred, that disgust? That's your fuel, Boy on Fire. Now we just need to find the ignition."

"I'm not following," Peeta murmured, watching Haymich take a sloppy sip of his drink. The man continued, a sudden brightness in his blue irises.

"I think the Careers just might be it. Looks like there's some hope for you after all."

"Wait, what?"

"This is exactly what we need. Now, the two of you will need to seperate, or else they wont take you in. You need some sort of incentive for joining them, after all," Haymich continued, waving a hand conversationally to himself, completely ignoring the fact his tribute was right in front of him whilst still addressing him. "I was worried you were barking up the wrong tree, kid, but it looks like you were right on track to saving your prettyboy skin."

"Haymich, what's going on!"

The man's head snapped toward the young teen, frowning as he considered the boy. "Peeta," he said slowly, as though considering the boy for the first time. Then his unshaven chin tipped upward, a posture of authority, looking entirely like the mentor he'd wanted and expected to see on the train. "Go to bed. I want you up at dawn tomorrow; I'll take you down for some seperate training before Katniss wakes up."

"I dont-"

"Goodnight," Haymich cut him off, standing fluidly and disappearing, crystal bottle of alcohol still nursed in his fist.

He glared at his mentor's back, pushing away from the table and storming away into his room, musing thunderously over the intoxicated attempt at giving advice.

.

* * *

**A/N:**Second chapter. Admittedly, updates may be slow, seeing as I have a FrostIron story in Avengers I'm trying to finish up first. However, I had an epiphany just before posting the story in the first place as to exactly where I want this story to go. Before that I was kinda just jotting stuff down. Anyway, I love feedback, so feed me your comments and I'll thank you with another update! Ta!

MK


	3. III: Dilation Of The Sun

**Savage Mind**

_.:III:._

_Dilation__ Of The Sun_

.

Haymich wanted him conscious at dawn. Apparently his stylist team wanted him vertical and comprehensive about half an hour before that. What they each expected from him were two vastly different things, and without having prepared himself for such a rude awakening, Peeta didn't even have time to remember why he should still be frustrated at his mentor.

No, all his irritation was focussed at Toya - a blue-haired young man with distracting feathery extensions on his lashes - the same young man that had pulled almost every hair from his hands, feet, and naval individually, then, to top it all of, had shaped his eyebrows using those fabric strips they'd then used on his legs. The infernal things had seemed harmless enough when they were being lain over his skin, but the cruel removal of them had brought tears to his eyes. The entire event left him feeling quite emasculated.

He'd yet to surrender his grudge as it was, so barging into his room unannounced at least an hour before the sun was due to rise was completely unforgivable in Peeta's eyes.

He was forced to stand, back to the ensuite mirror and the basin drilling into his hip, as he and the young man were joined by two more stylists whom Peeta also recognised from his earlier transformation.

_'Not a completely lost cause,'_ the young woman on his team, Leah, had said upon seeing him the first time. Only after gruelling hours of torture, or as some would call it 'pampering', she'd upped her opinion to a mere _'from a four out of ten, you're at least a six, now. Pretty impressive.'_

She gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes as she entered in front of the tall dark-skinned red-headed man that completed their triage. "Good morning," she chimed, her voice surprisingly pleasant, adding to the sweet illusion her pixi appearance gave.

Peeta grunted a response at her that barely passed as a 'good morning' itself, eyeing the way she and Toya closed in on him, fully prepared for an attack on his appearance. Nuke, the dark man who had yet to say anything, closed the door behind him, slipping a bag off his shoulder.

"We know your testosterone is pumping and you can hardly wait to go throw things and break stuff," Toya began, already leaning forward and prodding at Peeta's brow, inspecting the shape he'd carefully created. He smelled powerfully like mint, making Peeta scrunch up his nose. "-but presentation is everything, which is something that most other stylist teams seem to forget."

"You have your interviews, after all," Nuke said finally, his deeper, rich voice sounding almost like a tune, lacking the distinct Capitol accent and mimicking the smooth syntax of District Eleven. "And we've finally collaborated on how we can win those fickle hearts in your favour."

Now that he was more awake and less cranky at having been woken in the first place, he was coming around to the moment. He still didn't want to be here, trying desperately to scrape away the masks of the Capitol that shroud their faces in makeup and dye, but he had no choice. "Think you can raise me from a six?" Peeta asked, shoving Toya away gently to get a better look at the rest of his stylist team.

Leah smirked. "Honey, you're lucky you made a 'six' in the first place," she joked, before placing a hand theatrically over her chest, "but oh, we'll try. Now, smile for me."

Peeta awkwardly pulled his lips tight, his brow tipping down despite the effort. Toya tutted, slapping the back of his hand against Peeta's shoulder. "Oh come on, it's not that hard. Properly."

"Like you mean it," Nuke contributed, leaning against the door and waiting his turn out of the way. The dark man was designated to styling his hair and handling his nails, Peeta remembered. Toya managed the imperfections of his body hair and teeth while Leah was in full control of his skin and makeup.

"I can't just smile for no reason," Peeta protested, "a fake smile isn't a smile at all."

At this, his stylist team exchanged a look, but he couldn't figure out why. Toya started rummaging through the bag Nuke had brought in with them, while Leah gripped his chin in an unyielding pinch between her thumb and forefinger, studying his mouth intensely. Nervously, he rolled his lips together.

"You bite your lips," she said to herself. Peeta managed a twitchy movement that resembled a nod. "Stop it." At the harsh command, he immediately released the captured flesh. "I'll get an Avox to bring us some sugar."

"Sugar?" Peeta asked when she let go, bringing up a hand to rub carefully at the skin, "what for?"

"To exfoliate your lips – they're chapped," she told him with a shrug, casting a look at the blue-haired man still searching for something in the fabric folds of the pack. She offered no more explanation, and instead whipped back to the previous strain of conversation. "Alright, just smile, it doesn't have to look real. Show me your teeth, pretty boy."

It felt weird smiling when two people were looking specifically at your mouth. Peeta had the desperate urge to slap a hand over his lips. She gave a groan when he didn't immediately cooperate. Peeta figured it was better to feel like a complete idiot than to have a frustrated skin and make-up technition tending to him before all public appearances.

His lips pulled tight, but this time it didn't look like a grimace. It was a small smile at first, his eyes remaining steeled as he stared at a spot of glitter on Nuke's eyelids that caught the light, but the team prompted him to grin wider. By this time, Toya was watching too, a brown bottle in his hand.

Finally, Leah nodded. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" Nuke asked, "that's near perfect. We'll have them crowing for his attention."

"You'd better believe it," Toya sounded proud. He turned to Leah then, "you just don't now how to give a compliment. It probably physically pains you to give him a six."

"Seriously," Nuke continued, opening up a little just the way he'd done the other day when they'd first met. It seemed to take him a few minutes before he was comfortable in any environment. "You really didn't get enough hugs as a child, did you?"

Leah glared at her teammates, flicking white-blonde hair over her shoulder. Peeta just looked between the three of them, watching them as one would watch an argument between strangers, trying to piece everything together but feeling like he was missing something vital to understanding.

Toya presented the bottle in his hand, diverting the conversation quickly.

"Okay now, Peeta, listen to me. You listening? Yes? Good. Okay, this solution is similar to Hydrogen Peroxide. Do you know what that is?"

"A chemical, I assume," Peeta murmured, because nearly everything with a long name that came out of his stylists' mouths was.

"You're not wrong. You'd probably know it better as bleach. Now, I want you to put some in your mouth."

"Wait, what-"

"It's gonna feel a little-"

"You want me to poison myself?" Peeta gaped at them.

As a little boy, he still remembered finding bleach in the pantry, being so thirsty and being about to drink it, not knowing it was dangerous. His father had found him just in time because he'd knocked something in the pantry over while trying to reach, and the noise had startled the baking man. His father had ripped the bottle from his young son's hands so hard the boy had fallen over. He still remembers that moment, the exact words his father had used.

_'You swallow that and you're dead, Peeta!'_

"Oh, dear boy," Leah interrupted at the startled look on Toya's face, "not to swallow! Of course not!"

Peeta was sceptical, eyeing the bottle with caution. Subconsciously, he reached a hand beside himself to grab at the porcelain rim of the sink, grounding himself. Nuke's dark eyes were sincere when he came closer, hands up carefully.

"It's perfectly safe so long as you don't drink it, Peeta. Trust us; we know what we're doing," the man insisted. He took the bottle from his partner beside him and held it out, gesturing for Peeta to take it. "It's for your teeth."

"My teeth?" Peeta murmured, bringing his free hand to his mouth, tapping at his canines with his fingernails. What was wrong with his teeth? Suddenly he felt really strange about smiling so much if they were looking at his mouth critically.

His team were quick to notice his churning thoughts.

"You have a perfect smile, Peet," Toya's sugary voice graced his ears, thick with reassurance, "you're gonna break some hearts at that interview. You're already the perfect blend of boyishly and devilishly handsome."

"And coming from District Twelve," Nuke added. "I have to say, you've probably got the best teeth of all the tributes we've handled over the years, so you've taken some time to care for them, at least."

"But," Leah drew out the word, interrupting her colleagues, and it always was a 'but' with her, "they're still stained. No rot, and your tongue and gums are perfectly healthy – no sores at all - and while your teeth are pleasantly straight and you only have a very slight overbite, they're still a little yellow. And trust me; winners don't go flashing around yellow teeth, especially not when they've got a grin that can melt ice."

"Wow," Peeta said quietly, because it was the first thing that came to mind, "so was that another compliment, or should I feel really insulted right now?"

He was already holding out his hand for the small palm-sized bottle.

.:.

* * *

_Wait, is he..._

Peeta stalled, leaning to the side to assess the lean man slouched against the wall in the hallway, waiting.

_Yep. Haymich is definitely sober._

Peeta felt the strangest urge to turn on his heel, lock himself in his room, and refuse to come out until he knew for certain that his mentor had downed at least three standard drinks and was decidedly not a metaphorical minefield.

He wasn't stupid – he knew exactly why the man was an alcoholic. It was because the games changed him. Because he'd seen death, dealt it, evaded it, and all at the expense of everything he knew and loved prior to the games. Before the Capitol.

After a moment, the desire to back away still hadn't abated.

_If my survival instincts are this in-tune, and they'll only improve during the Games, maybe I might actually live a few days yet. That'd shock a few people._

"Peeta," Haymich said by way of greeting, sounding even a little surprised. He couldn't tell if it was because he was awake fifteen minutes earlier than they'd agreed on, or if the man had forgotten his own demands. His companion answered the unspoken question with his following words. "I was sure they wouldn't release you for a while yet."

"You knew my prep team were gonna take me hostage?" he asked, and almost cringed. His mouth felt _disgusting._

Haymich caught the grimace. "What divine punishments did they dish out?"

Peeta glared, unhappy at being made to talk when his tongue felt as though it was weighed down with wool and his gums coated in cotton. He had the foulest taste and the oddest sensation caught in the back of his throat, but no matter how many times he rinsed out the foul chemical or sculled fresh water, the feeling didn't go away.

So, rather than answering, Peeta just crossed his arms guardedly and turned his head away, jaw set as he made to pass Haymich and enter the elevator. He didn't get far before the man grabbed him by his solid chin, hard fingers digging perfectly into sharp nerve endings.

With the precise hand prompting the boy to let out a quiet gasp, it seemed Haymich inspected his mouth in the small amount of time because a gruff laugh came from deep within his chest. Peeta tore away, giving the man an incredulous look.

If his life didn't rely on this victor, he'd have accepted the desire to punch him for invading his space. He grew up with two brothers – it was more of a reflex to back away than to start a brawl, just as it was more of a reflex than a violent streak that he wanted to lash out in the first place. It was 'every man for himself' at least once in everybody's life back in Twelve.

Peeta detested violence, especially when he felt something giving water to the deep-seeded desires within himself. He hated to think that he could fall so far as to seek out turmoil among others, especially when everyone was suffering, but he'd seen a lot in his life. So many thought that just because he was the Baker's son that he was well fed and better off than many of the other children.

If anything, he had even less than them. At least most of them had a mother who loved them.

A mother who wanted them to come back to her arms, to be held against her breast with tenderness and relief.

A mother who would cry for them.

"So they gave you some of _that_ stuff, eh?" Haymich asked with a dry chuckle, breaking Peeta's line of thought. The tribute quickly forgot his desire to close his fist. "It's terrible the firs two or three times, but eventually you get used to it."

Peeta noticed for the first time that Haymich's toothy grin was particularly clean. Barely even a hint of beer stains, which he should rightfully have.

Noticing his tribute's line of sight, Haymich gave him a pointed eyebrow raise. "You didn't think they'd let us past victors be seen in public as mentors for their Hunger Games if we looked like common gutter rats, did you?"

Now that he was looking, Haymich's hair even seemed to be trimmed neatly, coloured a little brighter and shimmering with cleanliness rather than oil. The stringy mop that Peeta was used to seeing on the man's head the few times he'd seen him around District Twelve in his life was no more. Even the blue of his eyes seemed brighter and a little glassier.

It was like they knew what their Games had done, and rather than trying to fix it, they just kept brushing the broken pieces under the mat and trampled all over them once more.

As though realising that the conversation would go nowhere so long as Peeta refused to talk, Haymich rolled his eyes and passed the teen, entering the motion-sensitive elevator ahead of him. "C'mon then, we only have two hours to ourselves. Usually the tributes don't head downstairs until nine, but the training centre is open all day and most of the night until eleven," he informed, punctuating the end of his sentence by pushing the button to the lower floor.

"Curfew," Peeta supplied, his voice gritty and torn.

"Exactly. Now, the Careers will probably already be down there, and they may be there throughout most of the night – I'm not exactly sure. That's why they get a lot of favour with the Gamemakers, because they see those particular tributes longer and can see their individual potential, not to mention their dedication to winning."

"What am I supposed to do?" Peeta asked, taking his eyes off the numbers flickering past at an unreasonable pace to give a lost look to his mentor. The elevator was going way too fast for him to possibly process this information in time.

"Surprise them," Haymich shrugged.

"I think I'll do that just by showing up this early in the morning."

"Then impress them. You've got to make this work. Otherwise, we're going back to my original strategy, and you may like that one even less."

"Why?"

"Because it's not for _your_ survival."

They were already at District Three's floor, and still descending, completely uninterrupted. Peeta wished time would just freeze.

He knew exactly what Haymich had just implied. Peeta wouldn't be a tribute. No, if he couldn't get in with the Careers, he'd be completely disregarded as a survivor and instead turned into a tool, a mere weapon to help his District Partner.

If he couldn't do this, his purpose would be for Katniss to live. Already he was planning on putting himself at risk for her, wasn't he giving her enough? She'd hardly even look at him.

"Fine," Peeta spat, deciding that he really hated elevator rides. Every time he was in one of the horrific metal boxes, his gut sinking as they dropped unrealistically down the height of an entire building - which was ,apparently, completely safe - the company was less than enjoyable. If this was what it meant to have companions, he'd rather indulge himself in a life of solitude. "So, what, we just go in there and say 'hey, can we join you'?"

"No," Haymich said with a tiny smirk, the machine jolting to a less than smooth stop at the bottom. The doors slid open and Peeta quickly stepped out, stifled and enclosed and needing to escape. "You do."

Haymich's heavy hand pushed against his shoulder blade, shoving him a few steps away from the elevator. Peeta staggered, turning wide, disbelieving eyes back at his mentor, who disappeared back behind the metallic panel, stranding him in the training room. Behind him, he heard the quiet clashing of blunt weapons fall to a halt.

Peeta froze.

* * *

**A/N:** Alright, this took a while. I wanted to move on to the Cato and Peeta interaction a little quicker, but the conflict between Peeta and Katniss and Haymich will be revealed a little more as the chapters progress. I had intended to get this out a few days ago, but I got stuck reading a couple of novels instead, and really, I should not be allowed the choice between reading and writing, because I always end up putting off my stories.  
Hope you all enjoyed the update!  
And thankyou to the lovely reviewers!

**MK**


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